


Serene and Savage

by HereBeDragons



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereBeDragons/pseuds/HereBeDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a spirit of the forest is torn from her world, and trapped in the body of a wolf, she struggles to understand her true nature, and find a way to free herself, and the werewolves with whom she shared a cursed existence. This story was written in response to the beautiful painting by Epsifawnshawn: "Forest Wake," for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serene and Savage

**Author's Note:**

> TW: for non-graphic mention of rape

  
‹›‹O›‹›

In the beginning, the Lady was nothing.

And she was everything.

She was the reflection on a drop of rain, the bright shards of sunlight on the surface of the ocean.

She was the vein in a leaf, a blade of grass. The pollen carried by the breeze to settle on spring wildflowers. She was goldenrod and sweet yarrow that yearned for the sun.

She was the harsh, high-pitched bark of a chipmunk, and the honk of a goose. She was the downy feather on the belly of a tawny owl. The bristling whisker of a bobcat. She was the scent of musk on the air, the blood that pulsed with each heartbeat. She was the venom in the fang of a snake.

She was a wood-boring beetle beneath the bark of a cedar tree; she was the bark of the tree itself. She was the sticky drop of sap that glistened at the end of a pine needle, and the root that stretched ever deeper below the ground, thirsting for water.

She was the red cap of an amanita, the spore that fell on the ground, and the new life that burst from it when spring rains fell.

She was a hundred shades of green. A thousand. She was bright grass and yellow lichen. She was sage that shimmered silver in the moonlight, and dull olive algae clinging to a rock. She was the palest tint of a luna moth's wing, and the dark, iridescent feather on the cheek of a kingfisher.

She was  _part_ of everything.

And yet she was nothing. Formless.

She was the spirit of the forest.

‹›‹O›‹›

A scent drifted through the woods, of fermented grapes and charred flesh and wood smoke and sweat. A scent that did not belong to the forest, but merely invaded it now and again. The scent of creatures that walked on two legs, who came and went with the seasons. Who came to take and kill, and rarely gave anything back.

The scent of humans.

And another scent as well, something fainter, more delicate. Less at odds with the smells that belonged to the forest.

Elves.

Then, a disruption in the usual pulse of the forest.

Shouts and taunts. The pounding of feet, a frantic heartbeat on the earth. The rustle of leaves and snapping of branches, a chase through dense brush. Laughter. Screams and hoarse moans that went on and on and on from the time the moon rose until it set in the west. No quick kill, no torn jugular or broken spine. This violence was for sport, accompanied by the metallic stink of blood, the warm odor of musk, and the scent of fear.

More laughter.

The sounds and the smells left the creatures in the surrounding woods ill at ease. Predator and prey alike – deer and wolf, rabbit and fox - they shifted nervously with the instinct to flee, but fought against it, uncertain in which direction they would find safety.

When the voices went silent, the forest was no less unsettled for the new quiet that hung uncomfortably in the air.

Finally, the silence was broken, gradually, as a voice formed sounds that echoed off trees and rocks. It was low and intense at first, but then rose to a crescendo. A ripple ran through the woods, through the air, through the very  _being_  of the forest. Light flickered, the tingle of weighted air before a storm, like lightning between the clouds.

As one, all the creatures in the forest held their breaths, completely still and silent for the space of a heartbeat.

Then, in a flash of light brighter than the sun at noon on a summer's day, the world - everything she had ever known - tore asunder.

The very fabric of space ripped apart, split open, and she was rent in half, and then again and again and again, shredded into so many pieces there was no hope of collecting them, of piecing her very soul back together. Before, she had been connected to all that existed; now, she floated, separate from all things. Alone as never before.

She reeled away from the immense silence, flailed in desperation, as she tried to connect with some essence, tried to grasp at the life that pulsed all around her, but no longer  _through_  her. But in every direction there was only more silence, a silence that ached, that made her feel she would burst into nothingness, or turn in on herself again and again until she vanished forever.

A pull that yanked and wrenched and jerked her, disoriented her even more than before.

Then she was flesh and bone. She no longer floated, but any relief that might have brought was eclipsed by the strangeness of new sensation. She was not the lifeblood of the forest now; instead, blood pumped inside her with each beat of a heart. No longer was she the swampy air; now lungs filled with each breath. Muscles contracted, white fur bristled with energy. Once, she was the damp earth; now, she felt the earth only where it touched her leathery paws.

She was no longer merely spirit, but spirit and flesh combined. Tangible, in a way she had never been before.

A wolf.

Frightened.

Angry.

And hungry.

So hungry.

‹›‹O›‹›

Urine and shit and the stale smell of fear permeated the clearing where one young elf had died, and another had been used as a plaything and discarded. With nose to the ground, the wolf had no trouble tracking the humans who had done this. They gathered around a fire, stinking of coppery blood, and sex and sweat, laughing and drunk on wine that reeked of elderberries and vinegar. So many scents, all carried on the smoke – burnt juniper and oak - from their fire.

They never saw the wolf coming.

He attacked with no hesitation, no remorse, and slaked his hunger on the humans. He clawed and bit and tore through flesh. Lapped at their blood, hot and red and salty, until no thirst remained. Again, all else in the forest went silent; watching and waiting. Wide-eyed in the darkness, anything with fur or feathers or scales blinked up at the sky, muscles twitching, coming as close to prayer as their nature would allow.  _Just stay quiet_. Quiet and still. Quiet and still, and safe from this new creature who had changed the balance of the forest. A wolf who was something more than a wolf, and something less, and carried with him an unfamiliar scent.

After he savaged the humans in the clearing, the wolf went farther afield. He sniffed out the rest of their clan, and attacked even those who did not stink of death and sex and elven blood.

_Why_?

A whisper in his mind. Why did he continue to hunt and kill, long after his hunger had been sated? His belly was fully, but he continued to thirst for blood.

_Death_.

_Retribution._

_Vengeance_.

Words fluttered through his mind, but he did not understand them. This was not his own revenge - he felt no anger toward those he attacked. But neither was vengeance was not tethered to anything else he could identify, and he could not locate its source.

The scent of fear on the breeze captured his attention, and all thoughts and words and wondering  _why_  were banished from his mind.

In a single night, the wolf brought down every one of the men who attacked the elves, along with others who had not taken part in the violence. Some of them died quickly, with screams that echoed through the night air only a short while before they were cut off with a gurgle or a moan. Some managed to escape his jaws entirely and fled the woods, never to return.

A few, however, managed to survive, wounded but clinging to their lives. They lay still on the dirt, or writhed in pain as their eyes rolled in their sockets. Voices called out to parents long dead, or begged for mercy from a god who didn't answer or, perhaps had never existed. They clawed at themselves, as though their wounds were on fire, and they stank of piss and shit and fear. Soon, they also stank of infection that settled into their wounds.

Curious, the wolf remained close, repulsed but fascinated by the sounds and the smells. They foamed at the mouth, and yelled, and howled, and spewed vomit and bile until eventually their bodies were transformed. The wolf did not understand why or how, just that there was fear and agony and something that  _burned_  in their blood, something that had come from the wolf himself. He couldn't feel it coursing through his veins, but somehow, it had been passed on to them.

Finally, they became . . . creatures. Halfway between men and wolves. They were abominations, things that should not have been able to exist as part of nature. Yet here they were, reeking of whatever curse lived in their blood.

When they awoke in their new forms, they were like newborns, confused and weak. They struggled to stand, and drooled from jaws filled with sharp teeth. Yellow eyes took in all around them, alert to dangers. Nothing dared approach them; the forest would have rejected them if it could.

The wolf kept his distance, disgusted by their scent, but unable to bring himself to abandon them entirely, unsure if it was it curiosity, or pity that held him.

When they were strong enough to walk, to tentatively hunt and try and make the forest their home, they came to him. They were wary. They sniffed the ground, shoulders hunched in submission. Though they growled at even the slightest movement, they dared not attack. Teeth were bared, claws were shown, but they kept their distance. The wolf was stronger than they were, and they knew it, they sensed it. Still they were drawn to him like moths to the flame.

They crept close, hunched and twitching, and when their stench became more than he could bear, he growled and chased them off. He saw nothing of them for several days, but eventually, they returned. Slinking. Feral. Some of them had blood on their muzzles; they had managed to hunt and kill. Even so, they were thin and awkward; it was clear that they needed him. They would not survive without him, without his guidance, without his presence to give order to their lives.

He wanted nothing to do with him, these misshapen children of his, but out of some instinct – again, was it curiosity or pity? - he allowed them to come closer. They cringed, but did not retreat. They pawed at the dirt, and whined, and occasionally one would snarl, only to be snapped at by its fellows. When they crept too close, the wolf would growl in warning, and snap when necessary, but they persisted. They refused to be run off, and over time, he grew tired of defending himself, and allowed them to approach, and to stay.

They followed him as he hunted, learned from him, fought at his side. He didn't lead them; they merely followed where he went. Soon, he could barely remember the time when they were not at his side.

They were not like him. He was a wolf - a large, magnificent wolf, with a snowy white pelt, and dark eyes that took in everything they saw. His children were merely wolf-like. Their faces were long, and their bodies covered in fur, shaped strangely, more like the humans they had once been. They could run on all fours, but sometimes stood erect on just two back legs. They smelled wrong to him, at first, but after a time he grew to count on their scent. Their presence meant companionship, warmth, safety in numbers.

Soon, the pack hunted well together, easily bringing down even bears, or grown elk whose antlers stretched as wide as the wolves were tall. They hunted any prey that could be taken down, most of it running on four legs, but occasionally on two. And sometimes one of the two-leggeds would survive, and a new member would join the pack, in the fullness of time.

In late winter, the largest female chose a mate, and the following summer, her pups thrived in the forest, where game was plentiful. The wolf snapped at them when they stumbled into him as they play-fought in the clearing, but there was no malice in his bite. They pleased him, these pups, with their yellow eyes and their oversized paws. He guided them, taught them the ways of the forest, and in return they gave him their respect. The whole pack gave the wolf their respect, treating him as an elder, which he wasn't, not really. Not yet. He had been alive fewer sunrises than they had, even though he had knowledge that eclipsed anything the others could possible know.

Even if the wolf himself did not know the source of this knowledge, nor even understand its depth.

‹›‹O›‹›

Another winter passed, and then another, and these were-wolves carved a space for themselves in the forest. In time, the other animals no longer panicked at their scent, although they learned to give them a wide berth. Other things that inhabited the forest, things not truly alive - spirits and things that crossed over the Veil from the Fade - these, too, gave the wolf and his brethren a wide berth. Even those demons who sought to possess a body, to know what it felt like to inhabit a vehicle of flesh and blood and bone, would have nothing to do with the cursed wolves.

More winters passed. A dozen, and then a score, and now some of the first members of the pack were gone, dead of old age or misfortune. A fall off the crumbling edge of a cliff. Swept away by an unexpectedly strong current. Caught unaware by a snake, and too slow to evade its fangs. Occasionally, an encounter with humans, the same humans whose ancestors had been the ancestors of the pack, although they no longer lived in the forest, but only on its edges.

There was no recognition now, from either side, when they met. Only bloodshed. Usually, the pack was victorious, and any humans who survived soon succumbed to the fire that burned in their blood, and awoke, howling and scratching, to join the pack. But sometimes a pack member was slain.

The wolf mourned each one, for they had become his family. His grief, however, was mollified by how calm they appeared in death. Eyes no longer alert, anticipating danger. Shoulders no longer hunched, preparing to defend against an attack. No longer tormented by the inner demons that gave them horrible visions when they slept. No longer driven by the fire that raged in their blood, that drove them to kill, that drove them to pace the rocky cliffs until their paws were torn and bloody. That sent their howls into the moonlight, echoing eerily through the solemn nights.

Whatever had cursed them, though it did not kill them outright, gave them little peace. In death, they seemed to find an end to this struggle.

And though some were lost, more young ones were born. As the pups grew to adulthood, the strongest took over leadership of the pack.

‹›‹O›‹›

Sometimes, others who walked on two legs came into the forest. Not humans, but elves, like the two who had died on that night so long ago, bringing with them a scent that caused the wolf's nose to twitch, and his fur to bristle, and a growl to form deep in his throat.

A scent that brought dark memories, and fear. Of tearing and pain and bright, bright light, and nothingness. This scent came from one of the elves in particular, one that was hairless and pale and old. When this one entered the forest, the wolf struggled against an almost uncontrollable urge to attack. To rip out the throat of this elf, and lap up the hot blood with his tongue. To lift his leg and cover the thing in urine. Anything, to block out that scent. Anything, to keep from having to smell that scent ever again.

But the wolf did not attack; instead, when the elf came into the forest, the wolf urged the pack to leave, to move deeper into the forest, to a place where no scent lingered. To a place that felt safe.

And so, the pack lived their lives, cursed and unnatural though they may be.

‹›‹O›‹›

Sometimes, the wolf felt a yearning. He didn't understand it, couldn't have even put the word "yearning" to it, but it hit him from time to time. In the song of a lark at dawn, or the bitter taste of a not-yet-ripe berry. In the scent of the air, just after a rain, when he lifted his muzzle and something was there that made him think of the time  _before_.

But before what, he didn't remember.

‹›‹O›‹›

Another winter, and then many, many more. Maybe a hundred winters, maybe two hundred. As time passed, the wolf's brethren were born, and grew, and lived and died, and summers were filled with the barking of pups, and some winters they kept warm and fat on the game they could find, while in other years many starved and died, but always when the spring came, a new litter was born.

The wolf did not ever feel different, though. He did not lose control of his limbs, or the use of his eyes or his hearing, as happened to the others as time passed. He was as he had always been. Strong. Young. Clear of sense and memory.

Beneath it all, the yearning remained. It was weak, dancing at the edges of his mind, but it was there, always. A yearning to be . . . more than he was.

His pack members seemed to feel it too. In the dreams they had at night, dreams that caused them to wake, snapping and snarling, and then whimper in pain. The wolf didn't know what they dreamt, but sometimes he remembered that they had once been human themselves. Whatever they remembered hurt them, scared and tormented them. A curse they were forced to endure, like an itch that could never be scratched, always present, always aching, behind all else they did in their lives.

Sometimes, he wished to free them from it, from this tension, but the ability to heal them was beyond him. So he pushed from his mind thoughts of displeasure, of how his children suffered. Instead, he did his best to guide them, to keep them sheltered and safe.

He had no way of knowing if this was a "good" life, but when his belly was fully, he was content. The company of the pack members pleased him, and he enjoyed the way the sun warmed his fur as he laid in the dirt while the pups played around him. When they came to close, he would knock them sharply with his muzzle. Not out of malice, but out of love, so they would know their place in this life, and grow up with the discipline needed to survive.

‹›‹O›‹›

During one of the short days of winter, when the light was pale and weak even at mid-day, and a damp chill hung in the air and clung to fur, a new scent entered the forest. Human, but with an additional note, something cool and sharp, like a vein of ice from deep within the earth, and a sizzle of energy.

The pack hunted it, as they hunted all intruders to the forest, and soon they had it cornered at the foot of the rocky face of a hill. The human - for it was human, in spite of the strange smell - backed herself up against the wall, a long thin stick held upright in her hands. The two dominant members of the pack crept steadily forward, eyes locked, unblinking, on their prey.

The human shouted, a curse or a prayer or a warning, it was difficult to tell which, and lowered the stick. It began to glow with an unnatural light, and a scent like sulfur filled the air. One of the pair of wolves who approached - the female - sniffed at the air, then shook her head, displeased by the scent that assaulted her nostrils. She was gravid, with twins or triplets that would be born in the spring, and was cautious on their behalf. Her mate, however, seemed not to be bothered by the smell, and continued his advance.

More shouting, words that must have had meaning, but the wolf could not make sense of them. Words tinged with desperation, shouted with such force that the throat from which they escaped grew hoarse.

Then, softer words, muttered, as though the human spoke not to the wolves, but to herself, or to someone unseen at her side.

The male stalked closer, and when the woman shouted again, he leapt, his jaws closing around the arm that held the stick. A loud crack, and flash of light that flew through the air and hit the female, knocking her back. She whimpered, and panted from the pain of the blow, but breath continued to fill her lungs. Enraged, the male tore out the human's throat, and ravaged her until there was little more than blood soaking the bare stone of the clearing.

‹›‹O›‹›

In the heat of the following summer, the female gave birth to her pups. Twins, a pair of males. One sedate; the other bright-eyed and rambunctious. They were, as was often the case, inseparable, frolicking together, or play fighting. They snapped at each other's muzzles over scraps, and slept curled up together at night.

As they grew, strong and healthy, the wolf watched them, curious. They were somehow different from the others, in subtle ways, but different. Physically, they were similar to the rest of the pack, but both were more likely to stand on their hind legs than any of the others. Less likely to play with a kill before ending the creature's life. One of them sniffed at everything, and studied things carefully. Insects and birds, and mushrooms that appeared overnight. He would sit on the hill and watch rodents from afar, as though trying to understand why they did what they did, where they had come from, and where they were going. While he did this, his brother stood watch, as though fearful that such rapt attention to just one thing would lead to trouble.

Something about them sparked the wolf's interest, and sometimes he accompanied them when they ran together through the through the fields and meadows and over rocky hills and splashed through shallow streams. Sometimes, during these romps, new thoughts fluttered into the wolf's head. Thoughts like the ones that appeared in the wolf's mind on the day he had created his pack. Thoughts without pictures attached to them. Thoughts with meaning that could be strung together in a way that was new.

Words.

Words that were trapped inside, because the wolf had no way to express them.

‹›‹O›‹›

Summer turned to autumn, and then winter to spring, and once again, the rains began to fall. And once again, the wolf caught a scent on the air that reminded him of . . . before.

This time, the memories danced closer, no longer just at the edge of his memory, but close enough that it seemed, if he turned his head to the side quickly enough, he could snap at them, sink his teeth into them, and remember.

But they continued to elude him.

Frustrated, he ran, harder than ever before. The twins felt his anxiety travel like lightning through the air, and followed. He quickly outran the calmer of the two, and soon, he outpaced the stronger one as well, although he could still hear the pounding of footfalls behind his own, as he raced through the forest.

He ran and ran until he felt his heart would explode, and he found himself on top of the mountain where the air was so thin, it seemed if he just leapt high enough, he would touch the clouds. He howled in anguish and frustration and pain and something let loose inside him. A shift, a crack began to form in his very being. He howled again and the crack grew wider until he felt himself dissolve through it and his vision blurred and he could no longer howl for his throat was broken, and his limbs refused to support him and he fell to the ground.

He lay, panting, only he wasn't  _panting_ , with his tongue lolling out from his strong jaws, saliva dripping to the ground. He was merely  _breathing_ , through a face that was short and flat. His body was no longer covered in fur, but bare skin, except where it was covered with supple bark, like the newly formed sheath protecting a young tree.

He tried to stand, but everything was different, and he fell back onto his knees, breathless.

He was no longer a wolf. No longer  _merely_  a wolf.

Even more alarming, he was no longer in the darkness, disconnected from the memories.

Everything flooded back.

He was no longer merely a wolf, but now also the Lady of the Forest, and  _she_  remembered.

Everything.

A moonless night, so long ago. Elves came into the forest, elves that came and went like the tide, and on this night a pair of them – brother and sister - strayed close to a small band of humans hunting in the woods. Men with the minds of boys who lacked respect for the forest and her creatures. Who saw the elves as even less than the game they hunted.

The boy they killed, after playing with him throughout the long night; it was his screams that had made the hearts of the woodland creatures pound with the desire to run far, far away from the stench of blood and fear. The girl, they mounted roughly, each of them in turn, laughing over the sound of her screams, until they abandoned her, battered and bloody, in a bed of dried, broken leaves and moss. Rather than live with the shame, she swallowed mushrooms, stark white with just the barest pale pink at their centers, one after the other. Their mild, sweet flavor belied an innocence they did not possess, and soon she lay still and cold on the ground.

The sire of these elves, enraged and grieving and almost beyond the capacity for thought, came into the woods. It was his murmured words that tore the Lady from the forest, tore her spirit from the plants and trees and animals, from the wind and water and earth. Then his magic collected all the scattered pieces of her, and forced them into a single body: that of the wolf.

It was the wolf who passed the curse to the humans. The wolf whose bite infected them with the disease that raged through their blood.

‹›‹O›‹›

The Lady stayed at the top of the mountain for days, while the feelings washed over her, the memories of what she had been, and what she had lost. Now she understood the longing, the craving she had felt all these years. Understood that she was so much  _less_  than she had been before, but that, in spite of all she had lost, something had been gained. The very ability to feel longing – to feel anything - was new, something she never had before, something she couldn't have imagined when she was a spirit of the forest, when her essence ran through all things alive - through the trees and the birds and the motes of pollen that drifted through the air.

She felt longing, and sadness. And love. She was beautiful and terrible. Serene and savage. Maiden and beast.

And she understood how this had come to be. Understood why the scent of the elf triggered so many feelings inside of her.

‹›‹O›‹›

The young werewolf, the more robust of the twins, approached, slowly, crouched on all fours, sniffing at the air. Terrified, stinking of fear and his desire to flee, but unable to stop himself.

The Lady tried to form words, tried to speak. To comfort him. At first, the tongue was alien and awkward in this unfamiliar mouth. But finally, she forced her lips into a shape, and pushed her voice up from out of her throat.

"You have nothing to fear," she rasped.

He stopped, and cringed back on his heels, yellow eyes narrow, his muzzle twitching as he was torn by the desire to stay and the impulse to flee from this strange creature who smelled so familiar.

"You have nothing to fear," she repeated. "I am the wolf. I am family."

A growl came from his throat, guttural and raw. He shook himself, from nose to shank, and clawed one foot into the dirt, as though frustrated.

Another growl, and he reared up on his hind legs, and howled, snout turned to the sky, a sound that echoed through the forest.

"Try again," she urged, and the words flowed more easily now, as she learned to make shapes with her mouth that allowed the words to come out.

"Lay. Dee," he managed, breathless and hoarse. "Lady."

Now, her mouth did something else unfamiliar. She felt the stretch of her bottom lip, felt her cheeks bunch up as the corners of her mouth curved upward.

For the first time, she smiled.

"Yes. I am the Lady. And you are?"

"Swift. Runner." He lowered his head and moved toward her, turning his head to one side, unwilling to look her directly in the eye. "I am . . . Swiftrunner. And you are My Lady."

‹›‹O›‹›

The Lady soon learned how to master both forms, to switch between them at will. As Witherfang, she ran with the pack, hunted alongside them, nipped at the heels of the young ones so they learned to pace themselves rather than running too wild. As the Lady of the Forest, she taught them to speak, how to control their urge for violence beyond what they needed to survive.

Always, Swiftrunner was at her side, and his brother - who took the name Nightwalker - close behind. They deferred to her in all things, followed her lead, encouraged the others to follow as well. And gradually, they tamed themselves. They fought against their baser instincts, against the craving for blood and the need to feel their teeth rip through flesh. They fought the instinct for the hunt, to run down their prey until its heart exploded from fright and exhaustion. They fought against their snarling, growling, biting communication, and began to use words instead. Chose names for themselves.

Swiftrunner, Bulfa, Cassian. Wartooth, Sorlia, Blackback.

Not all of the pack responded favorably. Some of them resisted, fought against taming their natural instincts. But most soon learned how to soothe themselves, how to control their urges. Most important, they learned how to speak with words rather than barks and yips, growls and howls.

With words came new thoughts, as well, as if putting together the words to speak encouraged them to think in new ways. Their minds raced as never before; they realized they were different. Different from Witherfang, and different from the other wolves in the forest. They were nothing like any other creature they had ever encountered. And when they began to wonder why, when they asked the Lady if she knew, she told them the truth.

‹›‹O›‹›

Witherfang woke to the scent he hated. The elf and his people had returned to the forest.

Confused, angry, he paced the clearing, his claws scrabbling in the dirt, as he fought the urge to run toward the scent. To seek it out, to destroy it. To rip open the throat of the elf who had done this. Had torn him from the forest. Had started this curse that haunted those he loved.

The Lady of the Forest fought her way out, transformed and took over the body, before Witherfang ran wild and led the pack in carnage that would have soaked the land in blood.

Instead, she gathered the pack around her; they were tense and wound tight as well, as though they could sense the presence of the elf's malevolent force in their midst.

"That scent," Cassian growled. "When I smell it, I dream of being human. Of a life without pain."

"We should kill it," Swiftrunner replied. "Kill it, for doing this to us, to our children."

When the others began to bark their agreement, the Lady stood tall and cast her gaze across them. When her eyes fell on Swiftrunner, he calmed, his shoulders hunched, and he bowed his head before her. Soon the others fell silent, as well.

"We are not murderous beasts," she reminded them gently. "Let us talk to him first. Perhaps the curse can be removed. He did this thing so long ago, surely his anger has been sated. Let us go to him, and convince him to make things right again."

"As you wish, my Lady," Swiftrunner replied, from where he crouched at her feet.

There was grumbling and growling, but eventually the others agreed.

The pack stalked the elves, quietly, following them at a distance, sniffing the air to see if the hairless elf would distance himself so the pack could come close and confront him on his own.

But he stayed well within the safety of the elven camp.

They tried to hail him, creeping ever closer in the dead of night, but the elven sentries were alert and able to see nearly as well in the dark as the wolves, firing arrows in warning and making the pack's efforts endlessly futile.

They curled up together nearby to sleep, and kept a vigil, always alert for any opportunity to approach the hairless elf. But he ignored their presence, and finally the elves packed their things away and moved on, out of the pack's territory.

The following year they returned, but again, the wolves could not get close enough to the elf to get his attention. Now, the Lady suspected that the elf knew they were there and deliberately avoided them. Again, after a season had passed, the elves left.

It was the same the next year, and the next. But when the elves arrived the following year, Nightwalker came to the Lady, away from the others.

"Let me go into the camp," he said. "I will speak to this hairless creature, convince him undo the curse he wrought upon us."

"No," the Lady replied. "The elves will not welcome you into their midst. They have weapons, and will defend themselves at your approach."

"But what else are we to do?" Nightwalker argued. "We have waited too long, suffered too long. I yearn to break out of this form, now that I know it is not truly my own. And yet this elf who cursed us refuses to speak with us? Let me go. By myself. I will convince him. No matter what it takes."

As foolish as his plan sounded, it was true that if any member of the pack could do such a thing, it was Nightwalker. He spoke better, more clearly, knew more words, than any of the others. And there was a gentleness about him that was unique. Perhaps he was right? Perhaps he could make the elf listen.

Still, she hesitated. "I fear that if you do this, it will have consequences you cannot foresee. Consequences even I can't foresee."

"But what alternative is left to us? Or are we to remain like this for always?"

He was right; they deserved to be free, if it was what they truly wished for.

"Very well. We will go together, you and I, and convince him to break the curse."

They ventured close to the elves' camp, and watched, and waited, and finally, not long after sunrise, the hairless one appeared at the edge of the camp, far enough away from the sentries that the Lady and Nightwalker could approach him without being immediately struck down.

When they came close, the elf dropped into a crouch, and grabbed for the stick he wore on his back. "Who?" His hands tightened on the stick, knuckles turned white from the pressure. "Who are you?  _What_  are you?"

The Lady's voice was calm. "Do you not know me? You and I have known one another for a long time, even though this is the first time we are meeting face to face."

"I have no time for your games." The elf looked at her, up and down, and then glanced at Nightwalker, his eyes narrow and wary. "Explain yourself, and quickly." He pointed one end of his staff toward her.

She didn't flinch at the threat. "Is there nothing about me that seems familiar?"

"Do not toy with me, creature. Tell me who you are, and what you want."

With a soft chuckle, she shifted into Witherfang's form, and fixed her dark eyes upon him. A moment later she reversed the transformation and once again, the Lady stood tall, "Now, do you understand?"

"You!" His eyes widened and his body stiffened. "The curse . . . you are the spirit I bound into the wolf? But how? How is it you appear in this form?"

"That question I cannot answer. I do not know how. I only know that, after years of being confined inside the wolf, I am trapped there no longer. After years of being the vessel for the curse you placed upon my children."

"Your children? A strange way to refer to mindless creatures."

"We are beasts, yes." Nightwalker's voice was deep and quiet. "But we are no longer simple and mindless."

"You say you are no longer mindless, and yet you come here to threaten me!"

"We have issued no threat," the Lady said, her hands in front of her palms facing up. "We want only to talk."

"To talk?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I have no desire to talk."

"But why not?" the Lady asked. "Do you not tire of this dance? You can pretend to ignore our presence in the forest, but I know you know we are here. Would it not be easier to let go of it all? Put aside your anger?"

"Put aside my anger? What do you know of my anger?"

"I remember what happened," she said. "And yes, the crimes committed against you were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead."

"Those monsters deserved what I did to them, every one of them."

"We deserved this?" Nightwalker took a step toward the elf. "I have never harmed one of your kind. Tell me what we did, any of us who now live, to deserve this?"

"Your ancestors murdered my children," the elf spat, seemingly unafraid, as though his anger eclipsed any other emotion. "And you are no better. Savages. Animals."

"And yet," the Lady said, "they are no longer savage. Can't you see? There is another side to their bestial nature. When I soothed their rage, their humanity emerged. Isn't it time to free them from this curse? And allow yourself to be free from the anger at long last?"

"Free? Never! Do you think a single day goes by when I do not remember my children? When I do not see in my mind the ravaged body of my son, the pallor of my daughter's face after she poisoned herself rather than bear the child of one of those monsters? Never! I swore an eternity of revenge on those who murdered here, and that eternity has not yet arrived."

"No!" Nightwalker crouched low and growled. "You will free us. Or you will die."

"Never," the elf said again, and again his hands tightened on his staff. "You and all your kind can rot in the Void before I will lift this curse."

"Then," Nightwalker snarled, "you die."

For all his control, Nightwalker was still a werewolf, after all. Before the Lady could do anything to stop him, he sprang forward with his massive hind legs and grabbed for the elf with his claws.

The elf swung the staff through the air in an arc, and Nightwalker was knocked aside. The elf struck him again, in the gut, with the blunt end of the staff.

"Upstart!" he shouted. "How dare you? How dare you come after me? Do you think I won't fight back? Do you think I am unprepared for your savagery? You say you wanted to end the curse, but there will never be an end? The curse is inside you, it is part of you. It is your birthright! And now, it will bring your death."

As Nightwalker struggled to his feet, the elf pointed the top end of the staff at the werewolf's chest and murmured soft words. The Lady shifted to become Witherfang, and leapt toward the elf, but before the wolf's front paws connected with the elf's shoulders, a flash of light, the same color as the flashes that lit up the sky in a storm, flew out of the end of the staff.

Nightwalker tried to leap out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. With a sizzle and the sickening smell of charred flesh and fur, the wolf flew backwards, and landed, motionless, on the soft earth.

Witherfang knocked the elf off of his feet, and took the creature's neck between his jaws. He could smell the blood that rushed just beneath the surface of the elf's skin. The wolf's teeth pressed into that soft flesh, just barely, just enough that he could feel the heat against his tongue. He wanted nothing more than to rip out the elf's throat, to end this torment that had been forced upon him, and upon his pack.

But would killing the elf cause an end to their suffering?

Again, the Lady forced her way through and took control, shifting out of the wolf's form. The elf pushed her away, and scrambled to his feet. Without even a look behind him, he fled back to the safety of his camp.

The Lady hurried to Nightwalker's side, and pulled him into her arms. She stroked his face, willed him to open his eyes, willed his chest to fill with breath, but the life had clearly gone from him.

Tears slid down her cheeks - the first she had ever shed - as she carried him back through the forest. This was her fault; they never should have approached the elf, not like this, just the two of them alone.

When Swiftrunner saw his brother's lifeless body, he rushed to the Lady's side, and howled. A howl laced with agony and despair, with fury and loathing.

"How did this happen?" he snarled, and for the first time, the Lady wondered if he meant to strike out at her. Before she could answer, a growl formed, low in his throat. "No . . . no need to answer. I know. I can smell it on him. The stench of that . . . creature."

Swiftrunner dropped into a crouch, as though he would pounce on anything whose movement triggered a response.

"I will kill him. I will tear out his throat. Who is with me?"

"Killing the elf will solve nothing," the Lady insisted, but when Swiftrunner turned to her, she could see a fire in his eyes unlike any she had seen before.

"It will give me satisfaction!" Another howl, loud and mournful, an eerie wail that echoed off of the trees, that multiplied and turned in on itself until all of the Lady's senses were consumed by the sound. A second member of the pack took up the call, and then another and another, until the forest shook with the sound of their agony. Their rage. Their thirst for revenge.

Before the Lady could stop him, Swiftrunner raced off into the forest, followed by many of his kin. The Lady ran after them on foot, but they quickly outpaced her. Mid-step, she transformed, becoming the wolf, sacrificing some of the compassion and awareness she had in her other form, but gaining speed and strength in return.

The pack followed the scent of a pair of elven hunters who were away from their camp. Swiftrunner and the others surrounded the elves, whose arrows were not enough to deter the wolves from their hunt.

But when one of the werewolves moved in for the kill, Swiftrunner growled a warning to stop.

"No! We will not kill them." He rushed forward and knocked one of the elves onto her back while the other crouched in terror at Swiftrunner's feet. "Bite them," Swiftrunner snarled. "Infect them with this curse that burns like fire in our blood, so they will know how it feels! Spread the curse to  _his_  people. This way, we can lure him to us. He will have to end the curse in order to save them."

The Lady of the Forest returned once again. She strode forward, and caught Swiftrunner's gaze.

His shoulders hunched in submission. "If," he added softly, "this meets with your approval. My Lady."

The Lady glanced at the elves, their eyes wide with fear and their bodies heaving to catch their breath. They were innocent of any crime. Did they deserve to suffer?

Perhaps not, but what crime had Nightwalker committed? What crime had any of her brethren committed, the ones who still lived?

Cursing the elves was wrathful, and vengeful. But not unreasonable. And it might well accomplish the goal Nightwalker gave his life for.

"It does," she murmured.

Swiftrunner raised himself to his full height, towering above the rest of the pack. Their eyes followed his every movement.

"You will be avenged my brother! If we have to turn every one of his kin like us, you will be avenged. This, I swear."

The elf at his feet whimpered softly.

Swiftrunner turned his gaze upon her, and his jaws parted, and his teeth gleamed in the early morning light.

‹›‹O›‹›


End file.
